


Grit

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ox bones. He was ploughing there for Ox bones.Like Geralt of Rivia cared.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vernon Roche
Comments: 2
Kudos: 64





	Grit

**Author's Note:**

> For a precious bun.

For claiming to be an emotionless mutant, Geralt of Rivia was sure bloody fucking needy and whiny when he wanted to be. After they hadn't seen each other in months - lifetimes, really, considering what the toll of war wrought on him - the first thing he had done was ask for favors. Like they were at that stage in their relationship where that was allowable. Even when he balked, the bastard merely pressed; Sulking.

And the prick had the gall to call him a child at times.

_Bloody git._

But that was where it started again. Because deep down, he was a bloody masochist, and Geralt of Rivia, Witcher asshole extraordinaire, seemed to know it. He _knew_ what he craved and there still lingered something between them. Even if he couldn't see or comprehend it.

This time their meeting was by bloody chance and he couldn't feign indifference at it. They had crossed paths unexpectedly in Oxenfurt while he was roughly disguised trying to barter with one of the merchant stalls for ox bones. It was all the camp could afford for protein and their arrows and bolts needed to be saved instead of loosing them into bushes after a single meager rabbit. He was there on strict business - important shit. But like a bad omen, the Butcher of Blaviken had waltzed in during his argument, dumping off a tied bundle of rusted, bloody weapons that could only have come from bandits, his face sporting a look that strangely appeared as if he was annoyed with hundreds of crowns of junk. He interrupted his conversation, like he was the only important person that side of the Pontar, with his trademark monotone voice.

It had sent shivers down his spine.

"I need to sell these."

The merchant actually turned to him, mid-sentence, his eyes lighting up as if they had been filled with glittering crowns. Fucking Geralt. He even had that damn effect on passerbys.

"Where did all this-?"

"I'm a Witcher."

_I'm a Witcher_. He should have punched him in the back of the head right then and there for fucking up his conversation for bones. Seven minutes of arguing was all for naught.

Alas, him glaring got the Geralt's attention and in a second, his golden eyes went from irritated to dancing with recognition and bemusement. Stupid bastard nearly smiled and he hated that it tempered his rightful anger in the moment.

Then everything went tits up from there. Because despite himself, he had a hard time being truly vulgar to Geralt. And the bastard's slight excitement to see him meant more than the notion had appeared.

So it started. A word here, an exchange there, and he was lured to laying on his back under the grand Guildenstern bridge, his fingers dug deep into the cold sand as Geralt humped him like a rabid dog, his cock dripping with a hastily applied potion and his ass aching as he endured. Six ploughing months they hadn't seen one another. Six months he had spent fighting for his life and his country - his body dragged through mud, his eyes witnessing the death of everything he held dear.

And all it took was for the stupid bastard to flash his cock and grab his ass, and he was on his back. Letting him fuck him like a drunken sod.

He was a fool and they both knew it.

Even worse... he didn't mind that much. It was at least _nice_ to be desired, even by a stupid bastard such as Geralt. At least for an hour or so.

Regardless, their poor rutting location wasn’t exactly hidden or made for such degenerate acts. That was the first problem that had occurred to him when his ass was spread by eager wet fingers. Even though they were pressed up against the damp aged bricks, shaded from the dying sunlight, anyone with eyes could probably figure out he was getting ploughed if they stumbled by. They’d just have to see the Witcher’s bare ass and figure it out, or bloody well listen to his damn sack hitting his skin; Unless they were stupid or too naive to understand that. Neither which helped in his situation.

Still, it wasn’t like he was going to invite Geralt back to camp for a bloody cup of juniper tea before the witcher fucked him like an idiot. The last thing he needed was his countrymen to hear that side of his life. And despite the rumors from thieves and bandits, Oxenfurt kept its doors locked tight with frustrating contraptions thanks to the bloody academy. Which meant there were few rendezvous points for them to discreetly meet. 

Besides, sand was better than pine needles stabbing his ass, though he was beginning to wonder if any of it was worth it. Geralt had a habit of bruising his flesh every time they fucked, and not in places where such things could be ignored. At least in the woods, people just thought Geralt was some wounded wolf making dying noises. Here it was a hell of a lot more suspicious - and obvious. No wolves in Oxenfurt. Even the mangy dogs didn’t pant as loud when they humped on the docks. Why the stupid git couldn’t understand to keep his voice down or bite a stick, he couldn’t figure out. It was if he wanted them to get caught.

He gave a hard shudder, his teeth digging into his collar as his legs pressed against Geralt for a second, the Witcher licking his lips in response, dumb to his mental anguish. For a second he wanted to ruin it and tell him he was shuddering out of horror, rather than lust, but truthfully he knew part of it wasn't from his roaming theories.

Maybe that was it, though. Geralt was a secret exhibitionist. Just his _fucking_ luck.

He sighed inwardly, glancing at the Witcher, who didn’t seem to notice his clear annoyance. He was too busy focused on ploughing him - roughly. Like he was trying to prove a point. Either that or he was drunk. Perhaps both.

He didn't smell like liquor though. More of rotting blood, spruce sap, exposed moss, and ...gooseberries? That couldn't be right. 

Didn't matter, as Geralt cut through his thoughts. His mouth scraped his ear, a groan escaping from his lips as he buried himself in his body for a moment, his cock noticeably pulsing. It made his cheeks flush a deep red and he stared up toward the dirty flame-coloured sky. Forcing himself not to be so damn tempted by it.

If he came from this, he'd never hear the end of it.

"Roche," Geralt murmured. He didn't respond, but he gave a quick clench; An acknowledgement.

He was rewarded with the bastard snapping his hips forward and shifting him hard into the sand. Gods, it nearly made him yelp, and he arched, everything scrambling in his head. Did it have to be like this? Did Geralt _have_ to mess with him? Then the rhythm returned, only a bit more hurried than it had been. Fucking git nearly made him lose it, and for a second, he burned in embarrassment. Was that all it took? What was wrong with him?

Bollocks. The Witcher was shockingly desperate, like it was the last fuck he was ever going to have and even if he had found somewhere more secluded like behind the prison, he doubted the bastard would have lasted a second before tearing new holes in his leggings. His lust was relentless and practically endless. Only an idiot wouldn’t have thought Geralt wasn’t bursting out of his pants when he walked behind him from the market. The bulge had been painfully obvious and just another note in his mind that he needed to make sure if they met again, it wasn’t in ploughing public.

Though he had to admit, it did make him flush slightly in satisfaction that he had gotten Geralt worked up just from them meeting. Even the last thrust, Geralt had moaned his name. How close was he to coming? How much did he want this?

As much as that would normally make him smugly loosen his tongue, he had come for a reason, and that nagged at the back of his mind. He still needed the damn ox bones, though now he wondered if he could even make it back to the market stall before dark. It wasn’t easy to walk when one’s rear had been bruised, spread, and banged by a Witcher. Especially when said Witcher was now angling and pushing his one leg further apart, stretching him to a point where he shivered and squirmed in response. Stupid whoreson. He needed to feed his men.

Yet he eagerly had taken Geralt like an starving whore, and his cheeks flushed deep as the other part of him scolded his eagerness. Geralt was at fault but not entirely. _He_ still had no fucking self-control. This was his punishment for it.

He frowned deeply as he moved to chew on his collar, his eyes falling to gaze between them as he watched Geralt’s glistening prick practically bash his insides to his lungs, his hips snapping into him at a surprising rate, like a coil being repeatedly cocked and sprung. Despite his silent hungering and mental mocking, was a visible damn difference in them and he didn’t just mean prick size wise. Their reactions to the mere sloppy act and how Geralt was acting to fucking him was a stark contrast and it caught his attention for a moment. How the Witcher dripped with withheld pleasure while struggling to remain expressionless, his muscles tensing as he drove forward into his body.

They were both enjoying it - well, one more than the other - but the disparity made him swallow. What if he couldn't hold himself back? What then?

He was fully aware how his own face was flushed hot with embarrassment and a bit of shame - he really hated when anyone damn well saw how wide he could spread his legs - but he was holding himself back quite well. The moans that wanted to come out were silenced by the cloth jammed against his tongue and teeth, and despite his own cock leaking, it wasn’t utterly unbearable. Uncomfortable, yes, but he didn’t feel like he was going to start shouting the Witcher’s his name or anything insane.

Maybe if he tilted... No. Best not to think of that or want it.

Geralt, on the other hand, was panting like a fucking mutt in heat, working himself into a frenzy as he sunk into a pattern. He curled over him, palms flat on the wall, and he thrust erratically and forcefully, as if his balls were plugged up. He was shoving him into the sand with his increasingly frenzied bucking and he didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t being fucking discreet. It was the act he needed; his body, his stretched hole - Gods, was he even going to be able to sit that night? Stupid prick - and he hated that it was hard to refuse the blithering cunt. Honestly, he could have just punched him square in the balls and collected his pathetic soup bones for his starving men, yet Geralt was utterly pathetic in his desire. 

He couldn’t just use his hand, he needed the warmth; the thrill. Legs hanging over his hips and the sound of wet skin being crushed together. He wanted him, because he would always accept.

Because he fucking was as easy as a whore to lay.

He was a whore. For... _this_. Even if a thousand ox bones were shouted to be given away to the first customer, he wouldn't leave. Not from this.

From _Geralt_.

For a moment, he shut his eyes, fixing his brows hard as he felt Geralt try and slam his entire length into his guts. Feverishly - foolishly - trying to get as deep as he could. It was maddening and fucking irritating. Especially because his own body was reacting to his miserable brash rutting as if it was the best sex he ever had. 

His standards had really slipped in the last few months. Pretty soon he’d probably get off with some sad-looking carved dick if this was what made his body shudder. Yet the mocking in his head was slowly succumbing to the other part. The one that was softly hissing for him to act as his blood demanded. He was a _whore_ son after all.

What was wrong with him? Was this what happened when he went so long without being ploughed?

“Roche,” Geralt groaned near his neck again, his breath ghosting over the side of his throat before his teeth scraped near the bottom of his ear. If that was supposed to be erotic, it was failing to do so, even though his cheeks turned a bright pink. He’d heard Nekkers screaming in the night that sounded better. He ignored his whimpering attempt to get him acting like he was a god of ultimate pleasure and glanced down the beach, his chest and stomach aching from the position and now brutal thrusting. The guards were changing stations above them, their obnoxious yells echoing down to where he was scrunched up, and he wondered how long until they were discovered. Especially now that the Witcher wanted to moan his name and shit.

The sky above them was turning purple. Just like his insides were going to be if he ploughing let the idiot fuck him until he reacted.

His cock twitched at the multiple thoughts. The fucking, the guards, being found in the position where he couldn't explain why he was spread with a massive Witcher dick up his ass. Would Geralt get off at that? Being found ploughing a Temerian spy by the whoreson soldiers of Redania? Balls deep in the Foltest’s former torturer, who was laid on his back and spread for it without protest? 

Probably. Witcher seemed to have a lot of kinks and most of them involved humiliating him in some fashion. He was a pariah in society already, what did he care if everyone saw him fucking another man? Except he had some damn standards and preferred his business to be private, even if his traitorous mind wanted him to start encouraging Geralt.

No, he didn't want to share _this_. That despite his grumbling, his own balls were aching to unload while his guts were impaled on Geralt's cock. He needed it and the more he prolonged it, the worse his life was going to get.

Hesitantly, he released his collar. Just to shove his mouth against Geralt’s ear, his breaths increasing in volume as he no longer had anything to silence them. He couldn’t deny he was being affected by the sad ploughing he was getting and he panted deep against him. Making sure he could hear his own trembling lust and everything hidden underneath.

“Hurry the fuck up, Geralt,” he hissed, biting his ear on purpose, sucking on it. It made the damned fool buck into him so hard he choked on the reflexive yelp. “I-I me-mean it!”

He heard Geralt's right hand slide on the wall, his nails scratching into the brick, before he seemed to understand his urgency. Without warning, he pulled back almost to the point where the tip of his dick was threatening to fall out, his head slipping to hang low. It made him blink. Was this guilt? Shame? Embarrassment he wasn't getting them off faster? _Understanding?_.

Then he thrust.

Fucking Melitele's tits, Geralt _thrust_.

He got one high bark of surprise out of him before he grabbed his collar again with his teeth and furiously sucked on it, the back of his head hitting the wall from the force of the second thrust. Fucking prick repeated the action, beating into him with renewed eager that was so hard he was sure his stomach and organs were going to be slammed into his throat. Over and over, his cock viciously pounding his guts, and he uselessly fisted and clawed at the sand around them, his own cock rubbing against Geralt’s stomach as he pressed them together. Nearly hugging him as he found a grip to fuck him like an animal. 

He, in turn, lost his foothold. There was nothing he could hold on to, no grasp of grass or anchored object to hold so he didn’t bloody lose his mind, and he beat his heel against the sand and Geralt’s back as he kept fucking him, the bastard’s pace growing sharp and erratic, the intensity becoming overwhelming.

It was unbearable. He couldn’t properly think. Geralt fucked him harder, his thrusts growing short, fast, and sloppy, and he practically buried him in the sand, dominating him like a bear on a fresh salmon. He could only let his head fall back, thumping hard enough against the brick he momentarily saw stars, and he gave in to his position, his throat tight and stuffed with needy, bubbling moans that he struggled to stifle against his collar. The need to come - to let loose - was beginning to eat away all logic, and the ache rattled him to the bone.

He forgot about this. That he had done the same stupid thing everyone had done - he underestimated Geralt. And he paid for it with honesty.

He groaned deeply against his soaked collar and he felt Geralt press his mouth against his exposed neck. Acknowledging his apology, or perhaps turned on by it. His teeth slid over his skin, and he took his punishment. A hard bite to remind him that he had forgotten _who_ he was dealing with. 

Whimpering, he thrust back. Pathetically at first, like he was a damned virgin, before the pressure of his dick rubbing against the leather that crossed over Geralt’s abdomen spurred him to remember how to fucking act proper. Without prompt, he brought his legs around the Witcher’s waist, his heel digging into the back of his thigh and ass, and he reached up to grip his damn forearms, his blunt nails cutting into the hard, molded leather.

He clung to him as Geralt fucked his ass like a beast. As if he was created to take such a punishing ploughing; Made for a Witcher’s pleasure. A whore for a mutant.

Fuck it. Fuck it, he didn't care.

They probably looked stupid, but he didn’t ploughing ever care as the pressure he needed against his cock and his insides lined up perfectly and his mind melted into nothing. Geralt’s prick hit deep within him the same moment the head of his own cock was caught between the tight space of their bodies. Pressed against a witcher’s stomach and his, the shockwave of pleasure blinding him. He soaked his collar with saliva, his eyes struggling to remain focused while his grip wavered on Geralt’s arms as bubbles of light burst behind his eyes. The bastard above him merely fucked - truly fucked - and pushed his entire length into his body. Straight to the base, enough to stretch his ass so it felt like he was going to split, filling him to the point where he couldn’t breathe, where he felt his lower stomach bulge. Again and again; Over and over.

His teeth sunk hard into his collar - his only source of reality - as his eyes fluttered in tune with Geralt’s thrusts. He forgot why he was even there or even what country he was in. The hell was his name? Who cared. He was being bred by a mutant. A demon with a wickedly talented cock. All that mattered was the pressure and pleasure - Geralt’s prick molding his insides - and he let everything else go. He had to.

He wanted to be used, like a sopping cock sleeve. It was all he cared for. Geralt. Ger-alt. _Geralt_.

_**Fuck.** _

He utterly gave in. No one sane would ever fight it.

The ecstasy that hit him after mere minutes was intense - quaking. More than he could handle, yet exactly what he wanted. It drove through every vein, twisted his spine into an hard arch, and released all the pent-up frustration and need he had collected over the weeks. Like an avalanche tumbling off a mountain in spring, triggered by gravity instead of force; Just as nature intended. He came between them without warning, his own cum wet, sloppy, and streaking as he jerked hard against his greedy lover, clenching around the cock still thrusting into him, and Geralt groaned deeply into his neck in satisfaction. It made his jaw hurt from how hard he had bitten his collar, a second ache rippling through him, and he barely remained conscious as an angry, tensing orgasm rocked him again.

He rolled his eyes back, the brick above his head turning into a smear of red for a second, and he let himself collapse, his hips bucking instinctively, wringing out everything from his body as he continued being ploughed. His fingers fell off Geralt’s forearms, striking the ground hard, and everything in him tumbled as he was banged into the wall. Forced to keep riding his high, pain and pleasure blinding his vision, threatening to blind him before he felt Geralt come. Hot, deep, and plentiful inside.

And that was that. That was the end of it. In a second, the ecstasy evaporated and he was left with a throbbing aftermath. One that trickled out of his ass when Geralt ground his hips down, covering his thighs in a warm, sticking liquid that would cling to him for days after. Not even the Pontar would be able to hide his damn sin, even if he bathed in it for a week.

He didn't care. Fuck, all that mattered was _he_ was in deep. Enough that it felt like his stomach was pushed under his lungs, his body tensing again, wanting a second round.

Until the logic came back.

He let his legs flop against the sand as Geralt pulled away, his mouth finally letting go of his soaked collar with a hot, shaking, _whimpering_ gasp and the damned Witcher merely dug out a cloth from his pockets to wipe himself off, barely noticing the state he left him in. Gaping, trembling, leaking, and exhausted.

On cue, the other ugly parts of his mind came back, and the first thing it did was chuckle at his misfortune.

_Fucking prick._ Why did he always let him do what he wanted? It felt like Geralt had punched him right to his throat by first going through his ass, his stomach aching as if it had been knocked out of place. For all he fucking knew, it probably had been. Everything inside him had, and over the next hour, he'd fucking be feeling it all. Gods damn him, did he have to be so big? And did he have to hit his head into the wall?

Did he have to enjoy it so much? _Did he have to act like such a needy cunt in return?_

“Hey,” he rasped at Geralt, trying hard to dismiss the effects of such an orgasm even though his thighs continued to jitter with pleasure and his head throbbed from pain. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to have sand lodged up his arse along with the stupid Witcher’s come. It was a punishment he wasn't interested in. “Give me fifteen crowns.”

Geralt blinked twice at him, pausing as he folded the dirty rag. “What?”

“You heard me,” he snapped, slowly reaching underneath his sore ass to pull at the ends of his armor and gambeson. Just enough to hide his still open insides - Gods he hated the feeling. His leggings were slipping further his thigh but he could readjust them when he wasn’t flashing the entire Pontar River. Still. His face began to burn as blood finally came back this cheeks, mocking him for how easy he had opened his legs up. His fingers were tingling as he attempted to get up and he could feel his calves ache and throb as his limbs were shaken from their previous position. Worse, his own come was smeared over his uniform and his quick brushes only soaked it into the fabric further. Fucking hell. 

Geralt didn't make things better by pushing the subject, staring at his trembling form with indifference. "Why?"

Why indeed. Why did he say yes? “You interrupted me, you know. I need to buy provisions.”

Geralt showed no emotion. Now he decided to act like a ploughing witcher? Fucking prick. “Those bones you wanted were provisions?”

He scowled. “We can’t all eat rotting meat from wolves, Geralt.”

He sniffed in response. “I can afford decent meals, Vernon.”

Yeah-fucking-right. He finally got a grip on the wall behind him and pushed himself up with his slightly trembling legs, flushing at the imprint of his backside and claw marks in the sand. His boot tip took care of it as he tried to fix everything else so he didn’t just look like a freshly-fucked whore, but he could already feel his ass throb with new bruises, the stickiness uncomfortable between his legs. A brilliant day this was for him not to wear any undergarments. Now he was going to be dripping come all down his legs - Fuck. Would anyone notice? “Whatever. Give me some damn money. It’s the least you can do for costing me time away from the camp.”

_Among other things._

Geralt sighed, but actually reached for his belt. “If I wanted to pay for sex, I would have gone to Crippled Kate’s.”

“That’s your fucking problem,” he muttered, opening his hand. Geralt took his damn sweet ass time counting the coins out, making him grit his teeth, before he dumped them in his palm. Some specked with blood, he noticed, but coin was coin. He shoved every last crown into his pocket, rubbing at his cheek for a moment to try and hide his flush, but he knew it wasn’t going to disappear so easily. He had been taken for a damn ride. Geralt merely watched him for a moment, his gaze curious but annoying.

“What?” he finally said. Prick gave a shrug.

“If you need food Roche, I can get you some.”

He couldn’t help but frown at him. "I'm-? We're fine.”

“Ox bones?”

He scowled at his accusatory tone. As if bones were something he could dismiss. There were plenty of damn days where he sucked the marrow out of hollow bones - pig, cow, rat. But of course Geralt was now acting high and mighty about it, despite what shit he’d seen him consume during a fight. Maybe it had been better they had been apart for so long. Because damn if he didn't have a bit of a surge to punch him roll through his veins. “I’ve had worse in soup. And we’re soldiers, Geralt, not damn charity cases. I don’t need you walking in like a damn prophet of Lebioda holding sacks of wheat and barley as if we’re to fall to our feet at your benevolence.”

“I was thinking of bringing you a deer,” Geralt said flatly. As if he had offended him.

“We’re fine.”

“Fine,” he sighed, clearly growing irritated himself. Served him fucking right.

“Is that all?” he snapped, wanting to leave. He could already feel his inner thighs moistening from come and sourness flooded into his mouth. Fucking Geralt. Every damn time.

“I guess.”

“Good. Now I need-” He took a step, through with the Witcher and his damned looks, and it was if his legs were paralyzed; Useless sticks. He barely registered what was happening until Geralt and the world blurred and he crashed into the sand, shouting as he did, his legs vibrating with numbness as pain slammed through his chest. The force knocked all breath out of him, his ass instantly throbbing, and he grabbed at himself, his body flooding with a vicious painful agony and the awful tingling of his sore muscles spasming while growing numb at the same time.

Worse, his thighs grew coated with the seed that spilled from his ass. Because Geralt hadn’t held back a single drop. He hadn't _let_ him. Like a fucking whore.

The bloody Witcher moved to help but he knocked his hand away. Gods damn him! Both of them! “Y-You!” he spat, sand now lodged in his teeth as he finally caught a breath. His lungs burned as he sucked in a breath. Now every part of him was going to be bruised, not only in flesh but his pride and dignity among other things. “D-Did you have to fuck me that hard? You fucking prick!” Geralt merely blinked, but he damn well saw the twinkle of amusement in his eye. “It’s not funny!”

“I’m not laughing.” His tone was seeping with stifled snickering.

“Ploughing whoreson!”

“Technically, I ploughed a whoreson,” Geralt muttered. 

_What._

That was it. He grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it at his eyes, missing his target but at least hitting him in the neck so some went down his armor.

“You fucking asshole,” he seethed. Geralt only smiled, as if he was harmless. As if all of this was amusing. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

Geralt nodded. "Of course, Vernon."

_Fuck him._


End file.
